Is Nothing a Thoughtcrime?
by QuixoticQuiddity
Summary: A story about nothing. And dystopias.


"Why would anyone want to buy a diary?" Jerry questions.

It was he, Jerry, and his three droogs, standing outside a prole shop, smoking cigarettes on their break. The three droogs were Elaine, George, and Kramer.

"Probably to stick it to the man or whatever," Elaine huffed. Her work overalls were splattered with the oil of the book writing machines of which she worked with.

"Don't say that," Kramer says warily. "The Thought Police could be listening. It could be that guy over there -" He pointed an accusing finger at a drunk prole passed out on the street. "Or that guy!" He pointed at a pawnshop with a kindly old prole man inside, who is definitely not anybody of importance.

"If they were listening, we would have been arrested a long time ago."

It is true. In other circumstances, members of the Outer Party that gathered around and talked freely would have been dragged off to the local Ministry of Love building, if not flat-out shot on the street. Miraculously, the gang had not yet faced any repercussions for their actions. Perhaps it was because of the contents of their conversations: their talks never had any true meaningful talk, but is instead a never ending saga of nothing.

"They're trying to catch us off guard, Elaine!" Kramer said in paranoia. "One day, you sit down eating your rations, when - bam! The Thought Police storms in and dinner is ruined!"

"Like Elaine said, they would have arrested us a long time ago." George paused. "What if we're already arrested and this is just a dream?"

"That's stupid, George." Jerry said with a shake of his head.

"George, how do I know you're not a member of the Thought Police, huh?" Questioned Kramer.

"If I could arrest you, I would have arrested you for a lot of reasons. Your hair? A real crime." He responded.

Kramer had nothing to say to that. Of course, it wasn't really his fault. Hair products are short in supply. So are a lot of things for that matter, but anyway, good hairstyles are out of his reach. But arguing further would drag them into a pointless argument, even more pointless than the dystopic hell they're in (but live quite casually in), and they had a lot of pointless arguments anyway; so Kramer decides to keep his mouth shut.

They spent a few minutes contemplating their existence when Kramer finally decides to open his mouth again and asked, "Are Eurasia and Eastasia real?" Always with conspiracies, this man. Though, it wasn't really hard to blame him since he works in the Ministry of Truth, where he changes facts and induces conspiracies on a regular basis.

"I'll tell you what isn't real - actual doubleplusgood cancers." Jerry said, mixing his speech with newspeak and nadsat vernacular.

"Why are you using that newspeak nonsense? Just say great like a normal person." Elaine said, though secretly agreeing that the cigarettes are awful.

"Nothng is normal, and these lousy cance- cigarettes are proof of that."

"Where'd you get the nadsat from, anyway?"

"Probably from one of those youth gangs" Kramer answered for Jerry. "You've seen them, right Elaine? These prole and Outer Party kids these days committing crime and forming gangs."

"I never did that when I was a kid." George grumbled.

"Do you even remember how it was when you were a kid?" Jerry questioned.

The frumpy man shakes his head. None of them could remember how the world was when they were young, actually. All they knew though is that the old world probably wasn't a shitty dystopia.

Soon enough, George announced that it was time for all of them to go back to work with the old watch he wears (that is most likely stolen). Jerry didn't have to walk far, but he has the unfortunate occupation of walking around in the prole districts, distributing badly written "literature" for the seedier audiences.

"I can't believe these people like this stuff."Jerry reflects as the proles pay out for their copies. They weren't even remotely good - worse than Fifty Shades of Gray, even.

To pass the time in the run down districts, he looks around at his surroundings. Hm, trash filled streets, a bunch of young people harassing an old guy, some Outer Party janitor looking dudes not doing their jobs, business as usual. Then, Jerry Seinfeld came across something peculiar. "The heck is this?" He picks up a flyer that called for the heads of Eurasian combatants. "We were at war with Eastasia just yesterday!"

"No, we were always at war with Eurasia, sir," One of his prole customers said, confused - at him rather than the sudden change

"No, they literally just changed it. It's like going into your home one day and finding your family is replaced by complete strangers - and you have to just deal with it." Jerry rants, "Would you trust your new wife to not poison your food? Or, or you suddenly have a brother and he'll be asking you for money and rations and just leeches off of you while you think: 'what did I do to deserve this'?"

"What.. are you talking about?"

"...Sure, we were always at war with Eurasia, would you like a book?"

Somewhere, Jerry Seinfeld could hear music. Nothing like the somber goloss of prole pop music or the propaganda music that blared from telescreens 24/7. It was something unique, something special lost to the age of time, presumably erased by the Ministry of Truth. However, the music did not travel in soundwaves, but in Jerry Seinfeld's memories...

*insert the 80s theme of Seinfeld*


End file.
